Breaking Society's Rules
by Tristan-the-Dreamer
Summary: Must dependance lead, inevitably, to shame? Post-retirement.
1. Spring

A/n: I fear and despise the thought of aging; this story was my way to confront that. I could not think of a title, so I just sort of...tried the best I could. I'll accept suggestions!!

* * *

"What is it?"

I flinched at the irritable voice that came from the other side of the door. "It's…it's a beautiful morning, Holmes; I was hoping we could take a little walk on the Downs before breakfast. I know it's early for you," I continued hastily, after receiving no reply, "but I can't stand to be alone on such a fine spring day. I've been out already for a breath of air, the birdsong is heavenly."

"Really."

"May I come in?"

"If you must."

"Well—no, Holmes, not if it will make you cross. I'm sorry for bothering you, I'll go have a little coffee and see you later today."

"Watson…"

I opened the door at once, and found him still in bed, the blankets drawn up to his chin. "Didn't you sleep well?"

He shrugged.

"Maybe a little fresh air will help--I'll open your window. There, listen to the birdsong! And the breeze--dear me, it's gotten stronger." I chuckled, squinting as a gust made my eyes water. "But still warm. If I was a boy I'd be getting my kite now." I turned back in time to see Holmes frantically grasping at the corner of his blanket, which was flapping in the wind.

"Holmes, what has gotten into you? It's quite warm—wait a bit. What's this..."

"Watson, don't—"

He fell into a panicked silence, face turning scarlet as I tugged the blanket down to find he was wearing his shirt, waistcoat, collar, tie and tie tack. The shade of red in his face was growing alarming, so I swept the blanket up and around his shoulder. "Why in the world were you sleeping in your clothes?"

He looked straight before him--his grey eyes were a crumbling iceberg. He ran his tongue over his lips several times before attempting to speak. "I found it the best course of action."

"And how is that?"

"Perhaps I might rephrase, Watson; it was—the only course of action."

"Oh…oh, I see. The arthritis, you mean...are you in much pain?"

"Just my fingers. It flared up last night--that's why--"

"You didn't eat much."

"Yes."

The shade of the room changed as the dawn turned a richer gold. If I was very still, I could almost imagine we were in a painting, drawn long ago and made to last forever.

The wind snapped at the curtains in a sudden gust, and I caught at the blanket.

"No; let it go, Watson," he sighed, watching under lidded eyes as it tumbled down to his watch-pocket. "The breeze is pleasant." He leaned his head back, inhaling the scent of wild flowers.

"I imagine so, after sleeping in all those layers! I think you're sweating a bit, Holmes." I took the liberty of rolling the blanket all the way to the foot of the bed. "Holmes, your shoes too?"

"Yes, my shoes too."

"But now you have dirt all over the sheets—"

"_I know!" _His strident voice trailed away to a low groan.

"I'm not happy about this, Holmes; you should have told me last night. You were in pain all through dinner, weren't you? Well—there's nothing for it."

He opened one eye apprehensively. "Nothing for what?"

"Well, don't you want to put on different clothes now?"

"No. Absolutely not. I know what you're thinking, Watson, and I'd die of humiliation if you were to--" he broke off, colouring again.

"And what is so humiliating about it?" I asked after a brief pause. "What's wrong with having physical limitations? The last I knew, it was not a crime."

He drew a long breath through his teeth. "To my mind, there is no direct and logical correlation between the morality of an action and the consequence that humans bestow on it. The human race is strange indeed, Watson. We make crimes into past-times, while the inevitable ruin of a man's body, ah, _that_ becomes a crime. You know how it is looked on, that shameful word—_incapacitation!_" His eyes glittered with fury. "Rich or poor, genius or fool...we all meet death in the end; some more horribly than others. Yet all of mankind turns a blind eye to the fact that it will happen to them, the outrageous robbing of their dignity and freedom...and when they need sympathy in turn, no one will spare it." He paused to catch his breath.

"You have me there, Holmes." I sat in the ladder-back chair beside him. "The world is a terribly imperfect place, and human beings are capable of the most odious cruelties to each other, and to themselves."

He made a sound of acquiescence, and turned his head on the pillow to look out the window.

"Which is why every man must do his part to be a light, to give hope…to defy the cruelty, and the anger. You understand? My speck of light, Holmes, was being a healer to London, and yours was protecting justice. Even now, we fight the darkness."

"How do we do that, Watson? Here, on the Downs?" He asked absently, as leaves rippled outside.

"It is easy enough; we resist turning to hate and bitterness as we face our new challenges."

He gave me a sharp look. "I can't wish away my shame, Watson."

"So you may suffer a little. Maybe your pride will be bruised. But I have dealt with contusions of many kinds during my career, Holmes, not to mention my long friendship with you. I think it will be all right."

"You think so? You are being honest, Watson?"

"You know I don't lie to you, Holmes."

"Hm." He sat himself up against the pillows, and wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. After a moment he looked hesitantly in my direction. "Watson?"

"Yes?"

"Would you mind removing my tie tack?"

"Not at all." Carefully I unfastened the tack, and set it on his bedside table as he instructed. He had closed his eyes as I worked, and now he opened them, studying the little pearl ornament twinkling in the light. He drew a breath. "And now--my tie?"

"Of course, Holmes."

He grew tense as my hands touched his neck; I paused, waiting until his eyes wandered up to meet mine before I spoke softly. "I don't want you to feel patronized in any way. You're allowing me to help you, and that is an honor for me. And it makes me happy to know you're not suffering in secret, do you understand? I don't care how small or big a problem is, suffering is not meant to be solitary."

He absorbed my words, then nodded briefly, looking down at my hand resting on the edge of the bed. He stretched out his own hand and touched mine briefly, which was, I knew, all that his pain-stiffened fingers could manage.

I waited a moment to be sure he had collected himself, and then returned my attention to the tie. This time I was careful to touch only the fabric, and I unwound the knot my friend had tied the day before—a knot I know recognized to be simpler than his usual standard. At last I slipped the tie from his neck, folded it and put it away in a drawer, again as he instructed.

His breath seemed to be catching a bit. "Thank you, Watson; that is enough for now."

"Shall I leave?"

"No…come here." He had a thoughtful look about him, and it was with no little curiosity that I returned to the ladder-back chair. He was cradling the pearl tie tack in his palm. "Watson…I should like to give you this tack."

"No Holmes, I can't accept that. Surely it's your best!"

"It is, which is why I want to give it. I think you will look very handsome in it, and at any rate it's something to remember me by after I—which won't be for a long time I'm sure, Watson, a very long time. Many years, decades probably, eh? So here—I'm sorry I can't put this on you myself," he added apologetically, gently dropping the tack into my hand. He smiled suddenly, looking to the window as the wind tousled his hair. "Shall we go for a little jaunt to the hives, then? I very much doubt my bees will take offense at lack of neckwear."

I stayed in the room for just a moment after he had left, though, and watched the pearl tack sparkle in my palm.


	2. Summer

A/n: Wasn't planning on this, but the story got into my stomach somehow, became something that's a part of me, that I have to finish. There will be one more chapter after this, and I want you to know: this is not going to have death in it. It's just exploring aging, but I will not write death in this story.

* * *

When I received a reply to enter, I pushed the door open to find Holmes contentedly in bed, buried in blankets and nosing through an old index.

"Are you planning on getting up today?"

"Not particularly, Watson, why?"

"It's half-past five!"

He paused in his reading and gave me a slightly annoyed look. "I have a clock in my room, yes. Watson I've never been one to conform to standards; I really don't see why I should start now. No man ever died from being deprived of fresh air for a day or so."

"Well, as long as I'm here, I'll see you aren't deprived of the fresh air, anyway," I sighed, going to the window and opening it—though it seemed a good deal harder than it ought to have been and I was slightly short of breath once I had finished.

The warm wind curled in, smelling of dry grass and ocean spray.

"Good lord, Watson! It's freezing out there." He dropped the index and huddled under his blankets.

"Holmes, it's the middle of summer. You can hear the grass sizzle if you listen closely."

He continued protesting, however, so with a sigh I bent over stiffly and picked up an extra blanket, which had been tossed on the floor. He got cold so easily these days…I spread it over him, trying to believe that it was his love of drama that made his shivering so extreme.

"Aren't you warm yet?"

"I'd never have been _cold_ if you hadn't opened the blasted window," he growled jerkily.

"I'm sorry Holmes, but I can't stand the thought of you locked up in this room—it's just not healthy. You're not the only one set in his ways," I added, rubbing his shoulders to get his circulation going.

"Hmh. Perhaps. All right, Watson, I'm warm. Stop being so broody…would you hand me my index? I think it fell on the floor."

"Ah, so it did." I sat in the chair and bent over to pick the book up, biting my lip as my body lectured me. "Here you are, Holmes."

"Here I am what?"

"The index, man. The index. You wanted to look at it more."

"Did I? Oh." He closed his eyes and leaned back against his mound of pillows. "Just put it on the table, if you would. Yes, excellent…" He dozed off and I sat quietly by his side as he slept. My mind wandered…into dark places…

"Watson."

"What!" I quickly scrubbed at my eyes. "What is it, Holmes?"

He was sitting up and scrutinizing me. "You're not wearing the tack I gave you."

"Well, no, I don't wear it every day. I wore it yesterday, you know."

"But I like to see it on you," he insisted, tapping his nervous fingers on the bed frame. "You know I like it, Watson."

"After dinner, then, I'll put it on, how about that?"

"Ah, yes." He smiled and relaxed back onto his bed. "That will be excellent. We shall have dinner together, as we always have?"

"That's right, Holmes."

His smile grew. "And as we always will."


	3. Autumn

A/n: Okay, I was wrong. One more chapter after this. I think in a way we all knew that...

* * *

It was still a little jarring to see Holmes' bed moved away from the window as I stepped into his room; the cold of changing seasons had proved too much for him, so we'd finally hired a man from town to move the bed to the corner opposite. Holmes had grumbled about the loss of a crown—both literally and metaphorically--but he was much happier with the new arrangement.

He was burrowed in his blankets as usual this day, and as I approached, he looked up at me with a curious expression. "Today is a strange day, Watson."

"How so?"

His eyes grew in intensity, and with an effort he propped himself up on his elbow. "It is very strange. I feel as if—I am living in the past, present, and future, all at once. Day and night, every season, it's all compressed into this moment."

"That does sound strange," I admitted.

"I won't deny it is an interesting experience," he said thoughtfully. "Well, but really it is autumn?"

"Yes—listen, just there—you can hear the scrapings of dead leaves, as they flutter down."

"A poet to the last, Watson. You were writing poems this morning, were you not?"

"Was it the ink on my fingers?"

"Mm-hm." He had the familiar twinkle in his eyes, but it was not as intense as in the old days. "And your look of ethereal knowledge. You had recently left another realm...there's a spirituality to your face, Watson--it comes from contact with music, and words."

"Miss Violet Smith..."

"Yes…ah, it seems so long ago, Watson…so very long ago. Then it was I was a spider in my own right, with my own collection of threads…killing the flies of crime."

"Now who's being poetic?" I teased.

"Bah! it was a simple naturalistic analogy, nothing more." He gave a long sigh, resting his eyes. "Have you been outside yet?"

"Yes, for a little. I saw two foxes, their coats brilliant red-gold in the dawn…frisking about in the long grasses, even playing with each other! It was very funny; I think they were young dogs. The dew was just leaving in the sun—there were still some few diamonds glittering about, refracting, quivering and flinging themselves off the grasses as the foxes ran by—" I paused, clearing my throat.

"Why are you stopping?"

"I didn't mean to get so poetic."

"Don't stop, Watson." He looked up at me, and suddenly I saw shadows in his eyes. "I can't go outside anymore, so you have to bring it to me with your words. I don't much want to know the growing habits of the grasses…or the length of the sun rays…there's no more use for that…I just want your words. They help me see…what I miss."

It was a few minutes before I could speak more, however; so we were quiet, listening to the scraping of the leaves and scrabbling of little creatures' nails upon tree bark.


	4. Winter

A/n: Ok, finally it really is complete.

Edit: Everyone, thank you so much for your reviews. I didn't know what people would think with the additional chapters, but I'm glad this story seems to have touched a tiny piece of reality somehow. I know I have much to learn yet as a writer, and I'm grateful for the reviews you give.

* * *

"Holmes, you scared me! Why didn't you answer?"

"I did, Watson," he chuckled softly. "I think your power of hearing has lessened of late. Don't be offended, old fellow; you can't help it. Watson, no, don't go away."

I wavered only a moment before stepping back into his room. "I don't mean to be touchy, Holmes. It was just hard to hear you say that—in more ways than one!" I finished with a laugh, coming to sit beside him. "I'm afraid you may be right, though. I didn't hear the kettle yesterday; I can't even hear your clock ticking now…ah well."

"We can still talk to each other, that's the most important thing." He glanced at the dish in my hand. "Is that soup you've brought?"

"No, tea, actually. I thought having it in a bowl would be…easier."

He was very quiet, then gave a small smile. "Well, I can't fault you for ingenuity, Watson. A bit of Earl Grey would hit the spot, so I'll relieve you of that dish and spoon. Thank you. Have you been outside today?" He dipped a spoonful of the tea.

"Oh, not me; look at the snow coming down! I'll not venture into that. It is beautiful to watch, though…the flakes falling endlessly, through the grey violet sky."

"Their one moment of glory, before they are lost in a sea of crystal corpses, nothing more than refuse to be stepped on." Holmes' voice was brittle, his flashing eyes focused on the spoon in his hand.

I sighed. "Holmes…if you'd rather a teacup and saucer, just say so."

"Confound it, of course I'd rather! But—well, you know. Surely even you can hear that." He nodded towards his trembling hand, and in fact I could hear the sound the spoon made knocking against the dish.

I took it from him and set it aside. "I think it needs to cool a little."

"Yes—I think so too," he said gratefully. He tried and failed miserably to hide a yawn.

"Would you like me to dim the lights?"

"I just woke up an hour ago, Watson, I'm not…"

"It's one of your bad days, Holmes, that's all," I soothed, as he finished a second yawn. "Tomorrow will be better." He put up a token resistance but allowed me to arrange his pillows so he could lie down. My stomach felt very odd as I watched him settling into a comfortable position; his face was thinner than ever, and I noticed a few white hairs among the grey.

"What's matter, Watson?" He murmured, drawing the blanket around him.

"This all seems so unfair."

"Well, how does this sound: next time, we flip a coin for who stays fitter, eh? It will be fair then." His voice was light, but his eyes were brewing concern.

I smiled through my tears. "All right, we'll do that."

"Make a memo of it."

"It's first thing on my list."

He allowed his smile to fall away and his voice to grow serious. "Watson, it's really going to be all right; tomorrow will be better as you say, though—there's no way we can go back twenty years, or even twenty minutes. And—and I think about that sometimes, Watson. I think about how things are so different now, how they are for you."

"What? Holmes--"

"No, Watson, listen." He grabbed at my arm, words pouring out in a feverish rush. "I've become such a boring housemate—I don't do anything but sleep, you have to do so much for me…and I can't take you on adventures anymore. I'll never have another case; it's over. Watson...I'm so sorry."

For a moment I thought I was going to be sick right on his bed.

"How many times do I have to knock this into your head?" I finally brought out. "I'm glad to take care of you. Of course it's more work, and it's frustrating sometimes, but—don't you understand? I'm not angry at you for changing, for being unable to live in the past. It shaped us but it's over now."

"But—"

"No, you listen now, Holmes: our friendship isn't based on how interesting you make my life, and it's not going to crumble now that you're retired. Do you know how lucky we are to grow old together? Do you know how lucky I feel, to see my closest friend every day? I'm not going anywhere, even if you tried to chase me away. And Holmes, for once I know I can beat you at boxing, so don't even try!"

He grasped my hand, laughing in relief, and after giving me a fond look he fell asleep quite easily.

I kept my hand wrapped around his. It had broken obscure crypts, knocked away guns...

Now, even in his sleep it had a slight tremor to it. And even so, though his very hand had changed so much, I was glad to sit there on a winter's day and hold it, glad to be in this moment--and wondering what the next season would bring for us.


End file.
